A passage through India

It’s hot, very hot. The golden disk of the sun sits just above my head in a clear sky. I can feel my dress sticking to my back and my feet feel claustrophobic in my recently purchased light weight trekking shoes. The street I am standing in is a perfect example of chaos. I pay the cycle rickshaw driver 500 rupees far too much but again far too little for the job he does in this heat and receive a polite ‘thank you’ in English. As he cycles away my immediate though is what on earth have I done? With my pale skin and blue eyes I am a startling and conspicuous contrast to the people who swirl and eddy around me. I am already attracting curious stares and people are actually stopping what they are doing to look at me.
My immediate urge is to walk as fast as I can down the street take a few quick photos and scurry straight back to the cool safety of my hotel but I force myself to walk slowly, ignore the stares and absorb the atmosphere that is as alien to me as I am to the people who create it. I swallow my discomfort and step into the river of vibrancy and colour that is The Delhi Spice market.
A cow munches sweet smelling grass, a woman with glossy dark hair sells brilliant yellow marigolds, an old man pulls a cart full to the brim with sacks of rice all these images are captured forever on my camera.
I walk further down the street, I feel less uncomfortable now. A woman in a startling pink sari takes my hand, ‘Namaste’ she intones in a gentle voice. I am entranced by the intricate henna patterns on her hands, she hangs a garland of orange flowers around my neck then she is gone, merging with the other women dressed in paint box colours around me.
I smell the flowers; a spicy warm scent fills my nostrils.
A man selling turmeric piled in small sand dunes smiles at me. I smile back, ‘Namaste.’ He looks surprised and pleased. I take a photograph of his stall.
I have nearly reached the end of the street now and I turn to look back. I have hardly noticed the buildings around me and now I turn my attention to them. They all look close to falling down and electricity wires form straggling tight ropes between the buildings. They would never be allowed to stand in England, a health and safety risk, but they add a strange, ramshackled magic to the surroundings.
My time is here is up now I am being called by my tour guide back to my air conditioned coach. I take one last breath of the heady, spice scented air, one last photo of jewel bright women with sacks upon their heads and step into air-conditioned western order. As my coach drives away, narrowly avoiding a cow in the middle of the road, I find myself staring back at that extraordinary place and not wanting to leave.